


The Tender Things

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago Draco disappeared out of Harry’s life. Harry has never believed Draco died that night; he was sure he would have known because they were bonded. When one Deacon Malloy moves in down the street, Harry discovers that both he and his friends were right. Draco’s alive, but is he still Draco? Harry is sure of one thing: their bond is true. All that remains is to convince his husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tender Things

**Author's Note:**

> Author/Artist LJ Name: tryslora  
> Prompter: capitu  
> Prompt Number: 8  
> Title: The Tender Things  
> Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Neville/Ginny, Ron/Hermione  
> Summary: Five years ago Draco disappeared out of Harry’s life. Harry has never believed Draco died that night; he was sure he would have known because they were bonded. When one Deacon Malloy moves in down the street, Harry discovers that both he and his friends were right. Draco’s alive, but is he still Draco? Harry is sure of one thing: their bond is true. All that remains is to convince his husband.  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.  
> Warning(s): none that I can think of  
> Epilogue compliant? not at all  
> Word Count: ~20k  
> Author's Notes: Wow. I loved this prompt as soon as I took it, and I remember thinking oh hey, I can knock this out quickly. Then it decided it wanted to be a 50k novel. Eek! I reined it in, and I apologize if this seems like it should be longer. Thank you SO much to my alpha readers, to my last second beta reader/britpicker, and to the mods who were incredibly patient with me and my slowness. So many <3 to you all. Oh and before I forget! The title comes from the song “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” by Simple Minds. It seemed appropriate. :)

Sometimes I wonder.

_What?_

About my past. About things that seem vaguely familiar, even though I know they shouldn’t. Is that how remembering is supposed to work, Dr. Ramsey? Should I be drawn to things, even if I don’t know why?

_What is it that you find yourself drawn to?_

A house.

_Is that all? You’re hesitating._

Not just a house.

_[The subject seemed anxious at this point in the conversation. His fingers drummed against his trousers, and the colour rose in his cheeks. His expression softened, but nerves kept him from speaking for several minutes. Please note that waiting allowed him time to gather his thoughts and speak again.]_

It’s a man, actually. A man and his son. He has dark hair—the man, I mean. The boy is fair, perhaps even fairer than myself. And they both have green eyes. I felt like… I felt like I knew that, before I happened to catch sight of them.

_Are you following them?_

_[The subject flushed at the question. His hands twisted together in his lap.]_

I feel drawn to them. Like… I ought to talk to them.

_Is there something else?_

I saw them before I chose the house on Grimmauld Place. It’s why I thought it felt like home.

_I must admit to some concern about the strength of these feelings, but if this man is perhaps a source of past knowledge for you, you might want to break the ice and say hello. However, I would recommend against making too strong a contact. It is as possible that he is a violent part of your past as it is that he might be a key to your memory._

He’s not. I’m sure of that.

_All I ask is that you take care. And perhaps we ought to meet weekly for a time, if you think your memories might be on the verge of returning. Can you schedule something in? I wouldn’t want to miss the chance to help you heal simply because I am only seeing you monthly._

Of course. I can work around my schedule at the shop. And thank you, Dr. Ramsey.

_[The subject seems extremely fixated upon this particular neighbour. I find myself concerned for his health, yet mildly hopeful that this may yet herald a breakthrough in his memory. After five years, finding the key seems a slim possibility, but perhaps this will be what he needs.]_

**_Excerpt from the Case Notes for Deacon Malloy, 14 September, 2006._ **

#

The knock on the door comes as a surprise.

While Harry likes his Muggle neighbourhood, he doesn’t want the Wizarding world stumbling into the privacy of his home. Even now, almost ten years after the war, he is sometimes stopped on the streets of London and asked for autographs, or caught by the press when trying to enjoy dinner with his son. His life has been a constant trial of popular press, and as the five year anniversary of his partner’s disappearance approaches, the press has become far more anxious to talk to him.

This is why he keeps number twelve Grimmauld Place as warded and hidden as it ever was. His close friends and a few from the Ministry (and of course, anyone who was in the Order) know the secret of his home, and his floo is attached to the official channels from the Ministry for work. But his neighbours know nothing of the house’s presence among them.

There is no such thing as a random knock upon his door, which means it must be something official. Someone who has apparated to outside his home and waits for his response.

Harry touches the door, letting the wards show him who is there. _Impossible_. He cannot possibly be seeing the person he thinks he sees on his doorstep, but if he does… a knock might just mean a miracle.

Harry yanks the door open, ready to speak, but he halts in the face of the polite, bland smile of the man on his front steps.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” the man says. He looks nervous, hands clasped in front of him, body swaying slightly as he stands. “And I’d like to assure you that I’m not a stalker.” He opens his mouth, then closes it again, a faint flush rising to stain his cheeks. “No matter what I might say during this conversation, I’m most definitely not a stalker. Would you care to get coffee?”

“Coffee?” Harry echoes. He has been waiting for this moment for five years, but this man stares at him as if he were a stranger, about to chastise him, when all Harry really wants to do is drag him inside the house and snog him senseless in relief. “Coffee?” he repeats. Coffee. Why would he be… Harry needs to take this slowly. Follow his lead and understand this, and not risk upsetting something that could be wonderful. He nods once, quickly. “Yes. Sure. Only I have to be back before—”

“Your son is home from school, I know.”

Harry blinks. “You know about Scorpius?”

“Is that his name?”  The man’s smile is quick and bright, somehow fond and interested. “I didn’t know. And I’m sorry, I… here I am, asking you to coffee and you’ve no idea who I am, either. I’m Deacon Malloy.” He sticks his hand out, politely waiting.

That one simple motion takes Harry back through time. Back to when he was eleven and refused this hand, and to when he was 18 and just starting Auror training and was expected to try again. And did. 

It keeps coming down to fresh starts for them, it seems.

Harry places his hand in Deacon’s, letting his fingers relax into the familiar touch. “I’m Harry Potter.”

Deacon’s smile broadens. “Harry Potter.” His clasp tightens, holding on for a touch too long before he finally releases him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry. So. Coffee, then? Just that, I promise.”

“Coffee. Yes.” Harry reaches for his cloak, planning to summon it, but something gives him pause and he steps back inside the foyer to grab his overcoat instead. “As long as we’re back in time for Scorpius.”

“I wouldn’t think of making you late meeting your son.”

Harry longs to reach out, to thread fingers with the man walking beside him. He sees that moment of surprise as they emerge from the yard and appear on the street, but Deacon Malloy seems unconcerned. He waves, though, to those around them, friendly with the neighbours that Harry has never really bothered to get to know.

It makes Harry wonder what else has changed. How everything _must_ have changed, and what he will have to do to reclaim the man he knows this must be.

#

“Are you certain it’s Draco?” Ginny leans forward, tapping the table. “It’s been five years, and this man sounds as Muggle as they come. Even Draco wouldn’t have changed _that_ much, if he’d survived that is.”

“He’s alive, Gin.” Harry’s tired of saying it. It’s been five years of his friends trying to bring him round to acceptance, and him insisting on what he knows is true. “I’d know if he’d drowned. I’ve told you that.”

“You’ve also said you were bonded, but you’ve never had the ceremony.” Neville’s words are as solid as ever, plain and simple. “Harry, I know it’s been hard, but some day you’ll have to move on. For your own sake as well as for Scorpius.”

It’s all tired arguments that have been had before. Harry knows his friends mean well, and these weekly dinners on Friday night with Ginny & Neville, and Hermione & Ron have been what’s kept him sane these last years. Molly has always been more than happy to take care of their children, and the adults enjoyed a bit of peace. But Harry feels out of place, the single father amidst the couples that his best mates formed.

“If Harry says he’s bonded, then he’s bonded.” Ron raises his glass. “Don’t I remember you two insisting that you’d been married in bed one morning long before Mum got hold of you to plan a ceremony?” He takes a long drink. “Nev, you just about drove me mad because you kept saying _Ginny_ and _bed_ in the same sentence, and that’s something I just don’t need to hear.”

Neville flushes brightly while Ginny laughs, leaning against her husband. “You’ve a point there, Ron, although I’m not sure that was a magical bonding.”

“According to all the research I’ve read, love itself is at the root of every bond.” Hermione sets her glass down in order to speak with her hands, fingers light in the air as she sketches something with gestures and words that only she can see. “Those marriages that begin without love will either grow love to strengthen the bond, or else the bond will fail completely without love to feed it. I suspect that when one looks at arranged marriages, the bond is actually an insidious love spell, particularly for those which happen between two entirely uninterested parties.”

“‘Mione.” Ron winds a hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her in to claim a kiss. “No lessons, love. It’s a lesson free night.”

She pulls back slowly from the kiss; Harry feels a sick twist in his stomach at the way she looks at Ron, her pupils blown wide. Her words are for Harry, but her expression is entirely for Ron. They have reached that point of the night where Harry is extraneous. “I’m just trying to postulate why it is that Harry might actually be bonded to Draco, even though there was never a formal ceremony.”

Harry pushes back from the table. It isn’t his friends’ faults that they’re in love and he’s left alone. “I think it’s time for me to be going. If you lot have started snogging, there’s no space left for me.”

“Oi, Harry.” Neville reaches up, catching Harry’s wrist. “If you want, we could stop by, meet the bloke. There are folks out there that might want to take advantage of you. Might want to try to play Draco’s part in things, and if they claim to not remember shite, it makes it easier if they arse up on remembering the details Draco ought to know.” The flush in Neville’s cheeks might be the beer, or the fact that his wife is curled on his lap, or possibly the admission that Neville’s the one who’d know best how to get around a faulty memory. “The more folks who knew Draco who meet this bloke now, the more we can be sure it’s really him.”

“We just don’t want to see you hurt, mate,” Ron adds quietly. “I thought we’d lose you and Scorpius both when Draco died.”

“He’s not dead.” Harry can’t even summon the venom to make it a biting response. “He’s never _been_ dead. And this _is_ Draco, I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll come by,” Neville says, nodding as if it’s settled. “If it’s Draco, we’ll fix things, Harry.”

“You believe me then?” Harry has to ask.

They all look back at him, and he can see their uncertainty, their disbelief that five years later Draco has reappeared. Harry thinks he sees pity in their expressions, sorrow that he can’t move past his love affair with the ex-Slytherin, His lips thin, pressed together. “It doesn’t matter,” Harry says. He knows it took them all time to come around and accept Draco as a friend and as his lover in the first place. Harry will prove this to them as well. “I’ll see you at work Monday, Ron.”

“I’ll see you then, mate.”

Harry doesn’t linger to hear what they say, simply ducks through the Floo to the Burrow and picks up his son. Green eyes and white-blond hair: Scorpius is so obviously a combination of Harry and Draco that sometimes it hurts to look at him. But not for long, Harry thinks.

Draco’s back, and Harry will find a way to help Draco remember them.

#

_[The subject remained quiet after arrival, sitting upon the sofa and refusing to say anything until one cup of tea had been drunk. Even then, he seemed reluctant to speak.]_

I met him.

_And?_

I don’t know. He seems… well, he accepted that I’m not a stalker. Even though I suppose I am in a way, but I’m trying my best not to be. He seemed surprised that anyone would knock on his door. I’m not sure our other neighbours even know he’s there.

_He’s not friendly?_

He seems focused. On work, maybe. On his son.

_[The subject paused here, smiling as he twisted the empty tea cup in his hands.]_

His son’s name is Scorpius. I’ve always rather liked that constellation. The scorpion and the dragon. I liked Astronomy once.

_You don’t like it any more?_

I don’t like observation decks. Did you know that you can read the future in tea leaves? It’s a load of bunk, I’m certain, but there are those who put stock in it.

_What do you see in your cup?_

It’s all a bit of a mess, really. Chaos, maybe. But there are three distinct splotches, reaching out for each other. Perhaps things are coming together out of the chaos. Getting better.

_Remembering?_

I wish I were. Could I please have more tea? Thank you.

_[The subject seemed comforted by covering the remaining leaves with more tea. I would say that he was agitated, but despite the tension in his movements, he seemed quite calm.]_

_Tell me more about Astronomy._

No. I don’t want to talk about it. His name is Harry, you know.

_The man in the house?_

Yes. We had coffee last week on Friday, and I met him again for coffee on Monday. That’s all. I don’t think he wants me to meet his son.

_Do you want to meet his son?_

Desperately.

_[The subject changed the topic of conversation after this to a discussion of newly released books in the shop where he works. I was unable to guide him back to a discussion of his neighbour for the rest of our session. I remain uncertain whether his interest in this neighbour is healthy or unhealthy, but it seems that it has indeed struck a nerve deeply. I have scheduled him for appointments twice a week so that I might monitor him for any possible retreat into anti-social behaviour. Our next appointment will be on Monday.]_

**_Excerpt from the Case Notes for Deacon Malloy, 21 September, 2006._ **

#

This is a bad idea. Harry’s sure it’s actually a terrible idea, and he doesn’t know if he can trust his friends not to somehow make a complete hash of this whole evening. This _thing_ that Deacon Malloy seems to think they have is still new, far too new to invite him to a couples dinner with friends. But it is such a simple way of having them meet Draco, all at once.

It was Ginny’s idea, and somehow Harry has agreed without really meaning to. It’s funny how that works. He wonders sometimes if that’s how Neville ended up married to her. Not that Neville doesn’t love her, but he has a feeling that Neville would have been happy to just go along for a while, and Ginny was the one who made all the arrangements for the wedding and got him properly marched down the aisle.

It would explain the bemused expression Neville wore through his wedding day, anyway.

They all arrive by Floo and are sitting around the living room with wine and curry when Harry hears the knock on the door. He barely pauses to look before yanking the door open and speaking loudly enough for the others to hear. “Deacon. Hello.”

“I didn’t know you had company.” The other man takes a step back. _Draco_ takes a step back, hovering on the edge of the doorstep. Harry can’t think of him as Deacon, although he tries. He slipped once and called him Draco, then covered it quickly when that gained him only a confused look.

“No, come on in. These are my old friends from school.” Harry pulls the door wide and reaches out to grasp Draco’s hand and tug him into the foyer. From that position they can easily see where Ron and Hermione are curled together on the sofa, and Ginny is sprawled across Neville’s lap on one of the chairs. “Ron and Hermione are my best mates, and Neville’s a close mate too, and Gin’s my ex-girlfriend.” Harry makes a face. “It all sounds rather odd put like that, doesn’t it?”

“Where’s Scorpius?” Draco’s gaze drifts to the stairs.

This interest in their son gives Harry hope that something of his Draco is inside of that mind. That he _knows_ him. “With Molly. Ginny and Ron’s mum.”

“She’s adopted our Harry, too, like one of her own.” Ginny’s on her feet and right in front of Draco, petite in stocking feet, hands on her hips. A faint wine flush stains her cheeks as she looks at him curiously. “So you’re the bloke Harry’s been on about lately.”

“You’ve been talking about me?” Draco gives Harry a curious look, and Harry feels the warmth rise to his cheeks.

“Gin…” Harry tries to warn her. He tried to tell them all that Draco wouldn’t know them, and he’s beginning to think this was a mistake. “Just a bit. I mean, they know I met this bloke—you—and that you live on the street.”

Draco hesitates, and Harry wonders if he’s said too much. In the times they’ve been out for coffee, Draco has never once said it was a date. It has been coffee… and conversation… and once a lunch in a nearby cafe. But never a _date_.

Harry wonders if this Draco even realises that Harry is gay.

“Don’t mind Ginny. She’s a bit overwhelming to everyone. Force of nature, our Gin.” Ron pulls Ginny out of the way and offers his hand. Somehow Neville is there too, and Hermione, all of them clustered around to “meet” Deacon Malloy.

Introductions are exchanged, and Draco is ushered in and offered wine and his own plate of curry. Conversation begins awkwardly, everyone testing the waters, but as soon as Draco mentions the book shop where he works, Hermione happily starts picking his brain about books and the two are soon lost in that conversation.

For the first time in five years, Harry does not feel like an extra at their Friday night dinner. Hermione sits on one end of the couch, Ron’s head in her lap as he stretches out and drinks his third glass of wine. Ginny is curled on the floor now, her head leaning against Neville’s knee. And Harry… Harry shares the loveseat with Draco, watching the man who was supposed to be his husband talk about Muggle books with his best mate.

He wants it to go on for hours.

He wants Draco to leave so they can talk about him.

The end comes when Ginny glances at Neville’s wrist and winces to see the time on his watch. “Bloody hell, I told Mum we’d be there by eleven and it’s already half past. She’s likely to try to keep Nigel ransom if we leave him there late again.” She gives Harry an awkward look, flicking a glance to the fireplace beyond him.

They can’t Floo, not in front of Deacon Malloy, who appears to know nothing about the wizarding world.

“Go on upstairs and get your things,” Harry suggests. “I’m just going to walk Deacon here to the door.”

He wants to tell them not to leave, but he has no way of saying it. Instead he rises to his feet and offers Draco a hand without thinking. There is a moment’s pause before that hand is grasped and Draco comes to his feet, movements liquid under the influence of wine.

“Yes, I should be going as well. And you’ve likely got to collect your son.”

For a moment Harry considers saying that Molly is keeping Scorpius for the weekend. He considers asking Deacon to _stay_ but they haven’t even kissed yet.

And Harry wants _Draco_ , not _Deacon_. He wants his lover and almost husband. He wants the father of his child.

So he sighs and nods. “Yes, Molly will be expecting me.”

“I hope it’s not too long a drive over.”

Harry blinks, and nudges Draco towards the door to turn him away from Ron’s slightly choked expression. “Not long at all, thankfully. And she’ll forgive us for being late. She always does.”

They pause at the door, and Harry hesitates after opening it. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For coming by. I really enjoyed having you here.”

“And your friends are probably reassured after having met me,” Draco says with a smile. “I can’t blame them for wanting to know who the random bloke was that showed up on your doorstep.”

“I’ve told them I’ve liked spending time with you.”

“Have you?” Uncertainty flits across Draco’s face. “I’ve enjoyed spending time with you as well. I…”

“Dinner tomorrow,” Harry says quickly. “Here. Again. You can meet Scorpius.” It’s rushing things, he knows, but he keeps hoping to find the key to unlock Draco’s mind and turn him back into the man he knew. “Say yes.”

“Yes.” Draco smiles. He steps forward, then stops, one hand half reaching. Harry closes the distance, lips pressed to lips for just a moment.

“They’re going to be dragging me out of here shortly,” Harry says, unable to contain his grin. “You’d best go.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

The door closes as Draco leaves, and Ron clears his throat behind Harry. “That was a tender moment, mate.”

“What did you think?”

“Ron! Harry! Get your arses moving, Mum’s going to be waiting for us!”

Ron’s voice lowers. “I can see why you think it’s him, but mate, that bloke’s a Muggle through and through. I don’t know how it’s happened, but that’s not the Draco Malfoy we knew. Looks just like him, but it’s not him. Can’t be.”

Harry lets himself be pulled along to the Floo. He won’t let Ron’s assessment sway him; Harry knows it’s Draco. His friends will understand eventually.

#

Dinner starts off about as well as Harry can expect.

Scorpius is wide-eyed at the stranger, thankfully not repeating the cautions Harry gave him earlier that Mr. Malloy is a Muggle. Harry hates lying to their son, but under the circumstances, he has to play along with whatever has happened to Draco. Having Scorpius blurt out something about magic wouldn’t go well.

Draco, in turn, is fascinated into silence when he meets Scorpius. He sits at the table and stares at the boy who stares back in turn. Harry pushes plates in front of them, then hands them forks and knives, not worried about arranging the silverware neatly.

Scorpius’s brow knits up in a deep frown, his head cocked and green eyes dark with confusion. “Daddy?” he says.

“Let’s settle in for dinner.” Harry puts the bowl on the table, spaghetti with sauce ready and waiting. He knows it will be a distraction for Scorpius, and perhaps eating will ease some of the tension in the room. “Scorpius, would you like pasta?”

“Mr. Malloy is a _guest_ ,” Scorpius says as seriously as a four year old can manage. “He ought to have his _first_ , right? And we ought to offer him biscuits after.”

“I suspect you’re the one that likes the biscuits,” Harry says with a laugh. “But yes, once we’ve had dinner, you can bring out the biscuits for afters if you’d like to share.”

Scorpius beams at Draco. “I would. Do you like lemon biscuits? I do. They’re my favorite.”

“They’re actually my favorite as well,” Draco confides. “Do you know how difficult it was to figure that out? I had to try every kind I could manage before I found them.”

“Why’s that?” Harry serves Draco first, then Scorpius, before he fills his own plate.

Draco’s mouth opens, then closes as he looks away, and just like that Harry is reminded that this is not _his_ Draco. This is a stranger named Deacon Malloy who is sitting at his table, with his son, looking all too much like Harry’s supposedly dead not-quite-husband.

It’s unnerving to see mannerisms that do not belong, as Draco takes out a mobile and seems to look at something before tucking it away again.

“I’ve lost my memories,” he finally says, speaking to the pasta on his plate as he begins to eat. “I used to tell people, right after it happened, that I’d lost my mind. Since I rather thought I had to have had it still when I went out that morning, but when I woke up in the hospital it was gone.”

Draco’s smile is rueful. “It was a terrible experience. I didn’t just forget who I was, or where I’d come from and why I was fished out of the water. I forgot everything. I couldn’t remember how to turn on the television, or what had happened to my mobile, or even how a mobile worked. Seeing a film for the first time left me shaking, and the Tube… that was a nightmare for months until I got used to it. I didn’t feel comfortable moving out on my own for quite a while. I had to retake my driving test, and it still feels odd to get behind the wheel. I keep feeling like I ought to be able to get everywhere faster, although I’ve been told that’s normal and I’m just impatient.” He grins at that, and nods at Scorpius who is staring at him with round eyes.

“You’ve got an automobile?” Scorpius asks. “Can you take me out in it? My grandfather’s car—”

“Scorpius, please eat.” Harry doesn’t dare let him finish that sentence, since he is fairly certain the next word ought to be _flies_. Nor does he need Scorpius to admit that they don’t have a car, and that they travel to his grandmother’s house by fireplace.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it’s too soon.

On the other hand, this is more personal information than Draco’s been willing to give before. Even if it is all information about _Deacon_.

Harry asks about favorite films, and as soon as they start to talk, Scorpius tucks into his food and is finished quickly. “Can I go get biscuits?” the boy asks, setting his fork down carefully.

“May I.”

Harry smiles when Draco corrects him, and Scorpius echoes the words. “Of course,” Harry says. “And if you’d like to wait a bit and play before coming back, you may be excused for now.”

“Thank you.” Scorpius slides to the floor and rushes off. Harry hears his door slam, and suspects he’ll be occupied for some time.

Harry and Draco fall back into conversation. Dinner is different than coffee. For one, there is wine, enough to lubricate the conversation without destroying Harry’s sobriety. They lose track of time, covering everything that occurs to them, from books to films to music to football clubs. It is only when Harry hears a door open and close, and footsteps in the hall, that he raises a finger to silence Draco as well.

Scorpius comes in with a tin in one hand, and something else Harry can’t quite see in the other. He sets the tin on the table in front of Draco. “Mr. Malloy?” he says, just before setting down the paper he holds in his hand. “Why do you look so much like my Papa?”

Harry’s heart drops.

He knows exactly what that is. That picture sits on Scorpius’s bedside table, where Scorpius talks to it every night. It used to be in a frame, but Harry took it out months ago and charmed it not to wrinkle or tear so Scorpius could hold it during bedtime stories. And so many of those stories center around the pair in the picture, because Scorpius has always wanted to know where he came from.

So Harry told him. Of _course_ he told him.

It is Deacon, not Draco, who looks down at the table. Deacon whose eyes go wide at the image in the photograph, of two young men—one noticeably pregnant—standing with their arms around each other, waving cheerfully at the viewer. Hermione took the picture and Ginny is visible in the background with Neville, but the focus is on Harry and Draco.

Scorpius touches the photograph, and Harry in the picture waves back at him. “That’s me in Daddy’s tummy,” he says. “And that’s my Papa. He looks just like you.”

“What is this?” Draco picks up the picture, looking at the back of it, frowning in confusion. “This isn’t possible. It is completely _im_ possible.” He sets the photograph down on the table and Harry wishes he could do something, _anything_ , to make the damned thing be still and static like a proper Muggle image. But it’s not, and Draco pushes back from the table, discomfort written in the stiff way he stands.

“Mr. Malloy?” Scorpius’s voice is uncertain, looking up at the other man. “Do you know my Papa?”

“No.” 

Harry sees nothing of Draco in him now. Not _his_ Draco, who was so excited when Harry got pregnant. Not _his_ Draco at all. No, this is Deacon Malloy, a Muggle who happens to live down the street and who has no concept of magic. This is Deacon Malloy, who doesn’t remember loving Harry Potter or fathering a child. 

This is a man who is afraid of what he sees, and that strikes deep into Harry’s gut. He grew up with this prejudice for so long… seeing it in Draco’s features tears at his heart.

“Scorpius.” Harry keeps his tone gentle. “Why don’t you take your picture back to your room and put it away. I’ll be up in just a bit.”

Draco stands there, arms crossed and lips pressed thin, until Scorpius is gone.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “That’s a new toy Scorpius has. Experimental, from where I work. I don’t know what he was thinking.” Lying doesn’t come easily, but what else can he do? It is obvious that Draco doesn’t recognise the picture, and that the sight of it makes him uncomfortable. Harry has no idea how to get past this barrier between them.

Still, Draco relaxes somewhat at the explanation. “He seems to miss his Papa,” Draco says quietly. “I take it he is unaware that he is adopted?”

“Surrogate,” Harry says easily. “He has my eyes, if you look.” The lies feel as if they dig him deeper into a hole he has no idea how to climb out of. “My husband died before Scorpius was born, and he’s always wondered about him. He must like you.”

Draco’s smile is thin and tense. “I like him, too. He’s a charming boy, but that shouldn’t surprise me, considering his father’s already charmed me.”

Harry steps closer, one hand coming up to touch Draco’s cheek, and he feels some of the tension slip away. “Is that what I’ve done?” Harry asks. “I thought it was you who’d come to charm me.”

This kiss is more than the one the night before, but so much less than what Harry wants it to be. There is a promise of something else, a wish for something deeper, but Draco pulls away before it is more than a hint. “I have to go.”

“Of course.” Harry gestures for Draco to proceed him to the entryway, and gathers his jacket from the coat rack. He holds it out and after a moment’s hesitation, Draco allows him to help him into it. Harry’s touch lingers over his shoulders, slides down his arm. “Lunch this week?”

“I’ve an appointment,” Draco says, grey eyes slipping away so Harry cannot see them directly. “Perhaps Wednesday, if you’re available?”

“I think I could be.”

Draco looks at him, and pulls his mobile from his pocket, holding it lightly in his hand. “Why don’t you give me your number? I feel like we ought to’ve exchanged them long before now. Then I can call beforehand, to make certain you’re free.”

Harry hesitates and does his best to make an apologetic face. “I don’t have one, I’m sorry.”

Draco’s brows arch, then furrow deeply. “I thought you worked for a technology company? I didn’t think they let their folks _not_ have a mobile.”

“It’s a long story. I don’t even have a phone in the house.” Harry shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and before this moment, it hasn’t. Although tomorrow he might just go out and _get_ a mobile. “The house is so old that every time we’ve tried to put lines in, they crackle and pop so terribly it’s not worth it. I’ve been meaning to get a mobile, but really, everyone who knows me just pops on over rather than needing to call first. Or they talk to me when I’m at work and easy to reach.”

It occurs to Harry as soon as the words are out that Draco’s like to ask for his work number, and that’s not any more possible than what he’s already asked, so he rushes onwards. “Look, have you got a pen?” Harry thrusts his hand towards Draco. “Write your number there, and I’ll look into getting a mobile.”

A small smile quirks, almost sliding into the familiarity of Draco’s smirk. “Are you saying you’ll get a mobile solely so that I can ring you up?”

Harry feels the flush rising to his cheeks. “Something like that, I suppose. You did ask for my number.”

Draco takes Harry’s hand and produces a pen from his pocket. His script is familiar as he writes the numbers across Harry’s palm. “There you go,” he murmurs, thumb sliding over Harry’s skin. “You’d best write that down somewhere more useful before you shower.”

“Daddy?” Scorpius’s voice is sharp and high, yelled from upstairs.

“I will.” Harry closes his hand around the number. “But right now, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you Wednesday for lunch.”

He waits until Draco is gone before he rushes upstairs to gather his son up in his arms and try to figure out how to explain what is going on. There are no words he can give to Scorpius that can right this or make sense of it, nothing that will not simply make things worse. So he tells him instead what he suspects: that Scorpius’s Papa went away and can’t remember them now, but that they’ll help him, and someday he _will_ know who they are.

Harry reminds him that until then, they can’t talk to him about magic. Mr. Malloy thinks he’s a Muggle, and that means no flying cars, no Floo, and magical pictures. Scorpius snuggles down under the covers, his hand tangled with Harry’s.

“I want him to know he’s my Papa,” he murmurs.

“Someday I hope he will.” Harry can’t promise, but he’s going to do his best. Anything to get Draco back.

#

I dreamed about drowning again.

_The same dream as before?_

Yes. No… not exactly.

_Can you explain what was different?_

It started when I was in the water, and I could see the sun shining through, like before. This time there was pain—incredible pain—as I fell. Something pulled me down, as if it were twisted around my leg, dragging me under and holding there when I kicked against it. But it was the pain that I remember now. The pain that’s new.

_You don’t remember there being any pain before?_

No. I remember fighting whatever dragged me under, and I remember relaxing and just letting it take me. The people who found me thought that I must have been caught by plant life of some kind.

_What did you think it was?_

We’ve been over this before. They told me that I raved about a giant octopus or squid, or some other kind of creature. I kept insisting it was alive.

_Do you remember it? Is that what caused you the pain?_

No. There was… a flash of light, like the shine of the sun on the camera lens, just before the pain in my dream began. I tried not to scream, but I couldn’t help it; I inhaled the water.

_[The subject reached for his water glass, then pushed it away again. His lips pressed thin and tight.]_

Do you think it is a memory? Or is it just my mind filling in blanks after experiencing stress?

_Have things been difficult for you recently? I thought you had been enjoying your interactions with Harry._

His friends don’t like me. His son—never mind. I’m not terribly good with children, as it turns out. But Harry himself, yes, that is exactly what I was hoping for.

_And what is that?_

He feels like a man I could fall in love with.

_Do you think love is in your best interest right now?_

_[The subject raised one eyebrow and an unusual amount of surety showed in his expression. There was no hesitation, and his tone turned dry in an unfamiliar manner.]_

Likely not. In fact, I’m quite certain you’ll be sure to tell me that it would be entirely against my best interest, but I will not be deterred.

_Are you comfortable making a connection with someone when you do not know who you are?_

Yes. With this man, yes. I am most comfortable in my own skin when I am with him. But—

_But?_

His son. And his friends. And I keep seeing hints that there is something he is not telling me.

_Perhaps you ought to be certain you know him before you allow yourself to fall._

I believe it is too late for that, Dr. Ramsey. But I assure you, I shall do my best to understand exactly who Harry Potter is before _he_ realises how I feel.

_[The subject rose to leave then, with a stiffness to his carriage and an aristocratic lilt to his words. It was as if someone else had slipped into his skin for a moment. It is quite possible that Deacon Malloy is beginning to remember his past life, and I remain concerned about the psychology of this past self. I have encouraged him to continue to come twice a week for the foreseeable future.]_

**_Excerpt from the Case Notes for Deacon Malloy, 25 September, 2006._ **

#

“And you’re a friend of Harry’s.” Draco takes Luna’s proffered hand lightly, and for a moment Harry wonders if he will raise it to his lips to kiss it.

“And yours, I hope,” she says lightly. “I’ve been wanting to see you.”

“Luna.” Harry tries to remind her of so many things with that one word. It is difficult enough to watch what his son might say; he had hoped Luna would manage to keep from frightening Draco.

She offers them both a smile. “Don’t worry, Harry. I shan’t stay too long. I just wanted to let Mr. Malloy know that his aura is terribly grey. I have some things that might help with that, if he’d like.” She reaches up, standing on her toes so that her fingers flit on either side of his head. “It’s worst here, although there is some grey at the heart as well. Have you hurt your head?”

“I did, many years ago.” His smile is kind. “I’ve seen psychics before, and I’ve even learned to read tea leaves once. They weren’t able to offer me any more answer than the hospitals and doctors. Unfortunately, I’m still left with headaches, occasional visual episodes, nightmares, and a complete fog over my past. I have a name, and have thankfully regained my comfort in society, but I doubt anything else will ever change.”

Luna tilts her head, regarding him thoughtfully. She moves in slow steps around him, peering at him from every angle, her earrings a gentle jingling set of bells that track her pace. “Have you ever considered regression therapy?” she asks thoughtfully. “I’ve had quite a good bit of luck with that in patients who’ve found their minds wandering. Sometimes all it takes is a little bit of a trip to bring it back.”

“Are you offering?”

Harry’s breath is caught in his throat, trapped as he watches them interact. He had invited Luna over to see what she thought of Draco’s situation, but he hadn’t expected it to come to something like this so quickly. Nor for him to be as accepting of this as he seems to be, after his reaction to Scorpius the other night.

“I could do that.” Luna gestures at the couch. “Go on and sit down. I’ll just go make some tea.”

Draco hesitates. “Now?”

She stops mid-turn and glances back over her shoulder. “If you aren’t ready we can wait. But tea would still be terribly nice. I’ll get it.”

Harry guides Draco to the couch and sits with him while Luna meanders off to the kitchen. He’s had Luna’s tea before… it’s never quick to brew, and it’s different every time. Sometimes he’s certain she keeps different possible herbs in her bag, just in case she might need them. He’s fairly certain it’s never a tea he just happens to have on hand in his kitchen. “This could be a while,” he murmurs. “Luna likes to blend her own tea. You’re going to love it.”

“I take it your friend is a psychiatrist then.” Some of the warmth slips away from Draco’s voice. His hand still rests between Harry’s hands, but his fingers do not curl around him. “I have a therapist of my own, if you’d like to know. I’m actually quite comfortable with my treatment, and I don’t feel a desperate need to rediscover myself.”

“I just thought—”

“ _Harry_.” Draco interrupts firmly. “If it will make you feel better for your friend to try her new age techniques on me, that’s fine. But I must tell you, I’m not a strong believer in crystals, or the vibrations of wood, or any number of ideas that have been tried in the last five years. I have been through three therapists, and I’ve found the most luck and comfort with a man who is extremely down to earth.”

“The first two weren’t?” Harry has a feeling there’s a clue there, but it’s for Draco to see, not himself. To Harry it is almost desperately clear.

“The first was a lovely man but a bit lost in the idea that magic could be real, and more importantly, that energy could be used to heal.” Draco smiles thinly. “We chanted, we meditated, we did yoga for hours, occasionally under brutal conditions, and we used candles, massage, color and scent. We chose crystals to go under my pillow, and all that did was give me terrible bruises on the side of my head, yet they did not help my nightmares at all.”

“Did it help anything else?” Harry strokes along Draco’s fingers, the touch light and soothing. He won’t hold on tightly; he doesn’t want to bind Draco here if he gets the urge to step away. He doesn’t want to make Draco uncomfortable. He just wants him to _remember_.

“No.” Draco turns his hand palm up, giving Harry access to more space to draw with his fingers. “The second was a woman who quite methodically went through every form of meditation, including the use of hallucinogens.”

There is a twitch in Draco’s fingers at that. “What happened?” Harry asks.

“I saw dragons.” Draco’s smile is tight and pained. “Brilliantly bright dragons flying overhead and diving down to attack me. Needless to say, I decided against trying that again.”

They weren’t attacking. Harry remembers when it happened. They were in Tokyo, and there was a display by the local dragon trainers. Five different breeds of dragons from across the Orient, barely tamed and awe-inspiring. They had swirled overhead while Harry and Draco had clutched each other’s hands and watched avidly.

They bought two small dragon trinkets: one dark scaled and green-eyed, and the other the colour of smoke and whispers. The two sit on the mantle in Harry’s room now, and to Harry, they symbolise the beginning of his bond with Draco.

Perhaps hallucinogens would actually _help_ , if they didn’t terrify him completely. Harry is sure that was a memory.

“Harry is good for your aura, you know.” Luna sets a tray on the table. The tea pot is still steaming, and the three cups sit empty. A small plate of lemon cookies is there as well. “Where he is touching you, you are silver, which is your natural colour.”

“How do you know my natural colour?” Draco sounds bemused. “And how is silver different from grey?”

“Silver shines.” Luna carefully pours tea into each of the cups. She takes a moment before choosing one to offer to Draco with a smile. “Grey is dull, nearing black. Silver has shimmer and depth, almost mist, like your eyes. There is a glimmer everywhere he touches as your aura responds to him. His turns gold in he same places, which is quite lovely when they mix.”

“I see.” Draco lifts the cup to his lips for a cautious sip; he makes an appreciative noise. “This reminds me of something. Sadly, I can’t seem to remember what.”

“Childhood,” Luna says calmly. “Rose hip tea. Haven’t you had it before? It seems good for your aura as well.”

Harry wants to ask where she obtained the particular rose hips used in this tea, but he has a feeling he knows. He can’t think how she managed it, or perhaps it is something from long ago. After all, Luna has worked with the Malfoys in the past, after Lucius was released from Azkaban. And Luna is the sort to gather things around her, just in case she might need them some day. Even the cast offs from roses.

Draco holds the cup in his left hand; his right brushes Harry’s. Looser, lighter… the touch tangles with his fingers and holds on, relaxing with every sip. “I don’t remember having it, but I do like it.” His voice is calm and easy again, the tension gone. “As long as you promise me I shan’t start hallucinating.”

“Well, I did have one idea—”

“Luna,” Harry interrupts, warningly.

She smiles. “What I’d like you to do, Mr. Malloy, is to sit back on the sofa, once you’re done with your tea. I’m going to have Harry move away, just for a bit. If you close your eyes, we can step backwards into your memories from when you were younger, perhaps. I’ll try to be certain to find the friendly ones. I suspect there are some quite unfriendly ones lurking about, which are keeping you from regaining yourself.”

“You speak of memories as if they are sentient things on their own,” Draco muses. He gulps down the last of his tea and sets it upon the table, then squeezes Harry’s hand as if to say he’ll be fine. Once Harry moves away, he draws both legs up to sit cross-legged, his back against the sofa comfortably. His eyes drift closed.

“Who is to say that they are not?” Luna says softly. She has her wand in her hand, and Harry holds his breath, praying Draco does not open his eyes as she gently touches it to his left temple, then his right. The tip draws a pattern over his forehead, then another touch and she draws a memory out.

The silver mist flashes in the light before she drops it into a tiny pensieve cradled in one hand. She holds it carefully before taking Draco’s fingertips and dipping them into the water with her own.

“Tell me what you’re seeing, Mr. Malloy,” Luna murmurs.

“It is a dance of some sort. Perhaps at the holidays; I believe I see some decorations, and everyone is dressed quite well.” Draco’s voice trails off, his expression bemused. “It’s rather like being inside a film, and you’re here by my side, Ms. Lovegood.”

“The mind constructs a guide,” she says, and Harry releases a small sigh at her explanation that ought to suffice for a Muggle. “Do you see anyone you recognise?”

Draco shakes his head. “I see myself, actually, and I’m dancing with a young lady. Dark hair and green eyes. But I’m afraid I can’t remember her.” He goes silent, and Harry can imagine him observing for long moments before he shakes his head. “I can’t remember any of them.”

“Keep your eyes closed, please.” Luna touches the tip of her wand to the memory, then neatly tucks it back inside Draco’s mind. “Count to ten, then you may open them, but be cautious. The world may seem to tilt somewhat when you do.”

Harry settles in on the sofa beside Draco, taking his hand again and winding their fingers together. “It didn’t seem familiar at all?” he asks.

Draco laughs as he opens his eyes. “I’m tempted to think it was a construction of my own mind, as I saw you there. Younger, as I was, but you were alongside the room with your friend Ron, and you both looked sodding miserable. My dance partner kept telling me to stop fighting with you for one night, and pay attention to her.” He shakes his head. “It was amusing, but it doesn’t feel real. Rather like a strange dream my mind is concocting after meeting you and your friends.”

Luna glances at Harry, and she glances back at him. “Let me help you clean up the things from tea,” Harry suggests.  He manages to wait until they are in the kitchen before asking quietly, “I’m never getting Draco back, am I? This is all I get.”

“I can’t say for certain, Harry. It’s possible we can clean the barriers from his mind, but they seem very well set after some kind of a curse.” She sighs. “That memory was terribly remote, and almost unrecognisable as being from his own mind. They are all there, I suspect, but caught behind a guard that is most definitely not damage done by a simple _Obliviate_. It seems very similar to the damage that the Longbottoms withstood after repeated attacks from the Cruciatus curse. His mind is scarred by the curse, broken. If it is to come back, it is something Draco will need to do on his own someday.”

She touches Harry’s arm lightly. “Court him, Harry. Fall in love all over again. So few of us ever get a a second chance, and here you are with a third. He’s already loved you once; I’m quite certain he will again.”

“But he’s not Draco.” The idea of calling him _Deacon_ for the rest of his life, of knowing that Draco is trapped somewhere inside that sharp mind… it kills Harry. “There’s so much he doesn’t know, about who we are, and who we were, and about _magic_.”

Luna smiles gently. “Teach him about magic and our world. But leave out the war. Maybe that’s why the Heedlings are there, to keep that away from him. Maybe Draco is happier without remembering the hate.”

She leans up to kiss his cheek. “Trust in love, Harry. It’s never failed you before.” She pauses and squeezes his hand. “Maybe it’s not him that needs to fall in love with you, Harry. Maybe you need to fall in love with _him_.”

Harry’s hands go tight. He can think of many times that love has failed, but there have been some brilliant successes. He and Draco found their way before… it’s up to Harry to make sure they do again.

#

“Court him, Harry.” 

It’s what Harry’s been thinking about since he and Draco met with Luna, but it has seemed like an insurmountable task. But when Neville says it, in his plain north country accent, it sounds like the only option, and such a simple one, too.

Harry tilts his coffee—he never _drinks_ alone with Neville, not after one remarkable night not long after the war was done, when both of them needed to forget the world around them and lost hours in the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey. He watches the way the liquid swirls as he admits quietly, “It’s been a long time since I’ve courted anyone, Nev. And I was never really very good at it. I never had to be. I made a mess of things with Cho, then Ginny chased me, then there was Draco…”

It’s one of Harry’s favorite memories, how Draco simply started _being there_ all the time. It took months before Harry realised he was being courted, and another few months to decide exactly how he wanted to respond. By the time he finally accepted a first date, he was half in love with the man already.

“Besides, it’s complicated now. He thinks he’s a Muggle.”

Neville makes a noise of assent before he leans back, long legs stretched out under the table. “You’ve a point there. That bloke thinks he’s a Muggle so completely that he’s got no idea magic’s even possible in the world. He’s a scientist, that’s what they call him, isn’t he?”

“Have you been talking to Luna about my husband?” Harry knows how close they still are, even though they’re now married to others. But Luna’s like that; she’s the girl who will always be a part of their life, no matter what.

“She wanted to know what I thought.” Neville shrugs. “And I wanted to know what she thought. She’s not sure he can get back who he was, you know.”

“I know.” Harry lets out a rush of breath and sets the mug down. He pushes away from the table, letting the chair scrape roughly against the floor, the sound jarring in his ears. He likes the sound of it, the interruption that it makes, shaking up the empty spaces in the conversation. Much the same way he likes the feel of plates and Muggle soap in his hands as he scrubs the dishes clean. It might remind him of his childhood, which isn’t pleasant, but it also gives him something to do while his mind mulls things over.

Doing things magically is simpler, but this is far more satisfying.

“She said that the blocks around his memories are very strong,” Harry says slowly. “Her guess is that a curse set them in place, which would match with what we know. I’ve been looking into things again.”

“I heard.” Neville’s voice is neutral, and Harry offers a small smile for that. “Just don’t get yourself in trouble at work,” Neville cautions. “I know you’ve got your vault for money, but you’d likely go mad if you were suspended and just stuck at home all day. Scorpius needs you to be settled and not rushing off half-cocked after something.”

Harry turns, the dish cloth dripping water in his hands. He doesn’t care that there’s a puddle forming on the floor, or that rivulets of soapy warmth slide down his arms towards his elbows. He needs to make a point. “Nev. What if something happened to Ginny? If she kissed you goodbye tomorrow morning after saying she loved you, then walked out of your life and disappeared. No one could find her. But then you _do_ find her, and you _know_ it’s her, but she doesn’t remember a damned thing. Not you, not your boys, not _anything_. Would you ever stop trying?” He spreads his hands, and at the vaguely sick expression on Neville’s face, he nods. “Right then. Don’t expect me to stop either.”

“I’m just saying be sane about it.” Neville brings over his mug and places it in the sink, leaning one hip against the counter and watching while Harry washes it. “Don’t give up your life when you’re trying to bring him back into it, Harry. If you’re reprimanded at work for poking into files you don’t belong in, or you’re brought up on probation because you’re not paying attention, or worse yet, you get _hurt_ , then you’re not gaining anything. You’re not helping yourself, you’re not helping Scorpius, and you’re sure as bloody hell not helping Draco. You can’t do a bloody thing for him if you get yourself taken out of his life.”

Harry sets the mug down slowly, staring at the water washing down the sink. “I told Kingsley about Draco.”

“And?”

“He said he believes me, but that there’s likely no magic that can bring him back if it’s curse damage.” He shakes out the towel, snapping it before looping it over the hook where it can dry. “He said there’s a fund Draco’s due, and I gave him all the notes I’ve got. The money’s there for me to use if I need to… he’s done some observations and he thinks it’s Draco too. I’ve no actual jurisdiction since our bond was never properly registered, but he’s pulling strings. If Draco gets to a point where he needs money in our world, for treatment perhaps, I can get it for him. And if he wants to be independent while sorting things out, he can do that too.”

When Harry looks up, his mind has already shifted to the next problem. The bigger problem. He’s not really worried about how much trouble he could get into reopening a case long closed, or how much difficulty it could stir up if there really is someone at large out there who caused this problem.

All he wants is Draco back.

The problem is, there’s one very major roadblock in the way. “Nev, how do I tell him about magic?”

Neville’s grin is swift at that. “Only one way for that, Harry. Be blunt. If he feels for you at all, he’ll be just fine with it. Wizards have married Muggles throughout history and stayed in this world. Draco’s as strong as any of them, I’m thinking.”

“This isn’t exactly your normal confession,” Harry says dryly. “Scorpius is his _son_. And he wants to call him Papa so badly. We talk about it every night, and Scorpius wants to ask if he can call him that. He’s been waiting to meet Draco his whole life, and he’s just as stubborn and spoiled as his papa ever was.”

“And as impetuous as his dad,” Neville adds.

“And that,” Harry agrees. He tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling. His hands are hooked in his pockets, holding himself still. “I want to just dive in, but I don’t want to drive him away, either. We’re barely dating. We’ve kissed, and every time I open my mouth I want to call him Draco. But I can’t.”

Neville considers the situation and Harry lets him. There’s a reason they’re close friends; Neville will take his time and mull things over. He’s a Gryffindor, through and through, but he’s never rash. He’s methodical, the perfect counterpoint to keep Ginny grounded. Harry can’t think why they didn’t all see it when they were in school. Harry was never right for Ginny; he needed some sarcastic and sharp, someone to keep him properly cut down to size when his ego threatened to grow out of control.

Somehow they all ended up exactly where they were meant to be, until Draco disappeared and left Harry unanchored.

“Court him,” Neville repeats. When Harry throws him a dark look, Neville simply raises his eyebrows and gives him a patient look. “I mean it,” he says firmly. “Court Deacon Malloy. When you’re comfortable calling him Deacon, that’s when it’ll be time to start telling him about your world. When you’re ready to tell _Deacon_ about magic, then you’ll know it’s about him, not just about finding Draco again. Because you can’t try to put Draco back in his head. That’ll either come or it won’t. Deacon’s who you’ve got, and if you want him, you’ll have to accept that.

“But I think once you’ve got that, once the two of you are properly linked that way, you can just tell him. Be blunt.” Neville claps his shoulder, squeezes roughly. “It’s going to work out, Harry. You’ve got the bond between you already, yeah? It’ll find it’s way back to true.”

Harry’s already think of ideas, things he can do to properly court Draco. It’s not going to be easy, but there’s one thing he can be certain of: he has a chance to do it all over again, and fall in love for a second time. That can’t be a bad thing, right?

#

I don’t know if I’m more in love with the man or the child.

_How do you mean?_

I’m comfortable with Harry. When I spend time with him, it’s as if he knows me, and I feel as if I know him. I brought a treacle tart one night because it seemed like the right thing to do, even though I, quite frankly, loathe the sweetness of it. As it turns out, it’s his favorite, and he was quite pleased that I’d thought to bring it. His son, however, plies with me lemon biscuits, which happen to be my favorite sweet. He says he would like to share sugar quills with me as well, but that his father won’t let him yet.

_Sugar quills?_

I’m not sure. Some sort of special confection that Scorpius happens to adore, I suppose. He claims they come from a particular sweets shop in Scotland. I’ve no idea when he goes to Scotland, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Harry takes him traveling. I think Harry travels quite a good deal for his work. Although I’ve never seen where he parks his car.

_Let’s go back to your feelings for this family._

I knew you wouldn’t let that slip by. Scorpius is… if I were to have a son, I swear he would be exactly like Scorpius. There are times when I can imagine he _is_ my son. His hair is pale, like I imagine mine was as a child, before it went a darker blond with age. He has a pointed chin similar to mine, and very similar cheekbones. His build is rather more like mine than Harry’s. I suppose it is because Harry’s first husband looked rather like myself.

_Mr. Malloy._

I haven’t mentioned that before, have I?

_No, you haven’t. Are you quite certain that—_

That this is healthy? Yes. At least, I do believe it is. It’s quite good for me, and if Harry is using me to take the place of a missing husband, than I can’t say I mind. I’m quite fond of him.

_You said you love him_.

I did, didn’t I? And I do. I believe I do. It’s been three months now since we’ve met. If you were going to tell me that it’s a detriment to my healing process, I’d think you’d have said it long before now. If anything, he makes me feel more settled in my skin. Happier with my life, and less like I’m missing something.

_Does it occur to you that you might be substituting new love for a life lost? What if one day Harry is unable to provide you that “newness” that you seek any longer? Will you still love him?_

I should think I know my heart better than you.

_[The subject’s voice turned cold and clipped, his expression quite dark. It is the first time I have seen this mood in several sessions, but once again, I had the image of someone other than Deacon Malloy in that seat. One has to wonder if the man he once was is someone that he wishes to return to, or if he is better off as he is now.]_

To answer your question, yes. I don’t believe this is something passing.

_Have you told him how you feel?_

…no.

_Why not?_

He trusts me, you know. I’ve taken Scorpius for the afternoon sometimes when he’s had plans with his mates, or one time when he had to go back to his job for the evening, Scorpius came to stay with me for the night. It’s fascinating how many people assumed he was my child when we went out. We had quite a good time.

_[The subject toyed with his cup of tea.]_

But there’s something that Harry’s not telling me.

_You sound worried about that._

Wouldn’t you be? It has nothing to do with me.

_[The subject sounded uncertain, picking his words carefully.]_

He won’t tell me where he works. And his mates are careful not to talk about work much around me. I gather that one of them does sports, but she never says what, and her husband’s a professor at a private school somewhere. I asked Scorpius once, and he gave me the strangest name. I had him repeat it three times, but I couldn’t make sense of it even then. I’m quite certain he’s misremembered it, but he says it is the best school there is, and that he’ll be going there when he’s eleven.

I’ve never met the woman—Molly—who sometimes cares for his children. He says she’s a bit eccentric, and I get the impression that he’s keeping us apart. I’d hope he wouldn’t think I’d say something, so I rather think he’s embarrassed about me. 

It’s as if there’s a gulf between us sometimes, and I can’t think how to get to the other side.

_Have you considered asking?_

_[The subject laughed, short and sharp.]_

Could you think I haven’t considered it? Of course I have. But really, saying _what are you hiding_ in the midst of a date, or worse a snog, isn’t quite the best of tactics on a date. I’m trying to eventually get him _into_ my bed, not accuse him of something and scare him out.

_Do you really want to be intimate when you don’t know the truth between you?_

…no. Neither of us has made that move yet. I think we are both holding back.

_Then ask. Before we meet next. I should be interested in hearing what it is that he has to say._

Did I tell you about the toy Scorpius brought to my home?

_Are you avoiding my suggestion, Mr. Malloy?_

Of course not. I shall ask before we meet in two weeks. But the toy… did I mention it?

_I don’t believe so_.

It was a pair of figurines. Action figures, I suppose. They were posed as if they sat on what looked like broomsticks, flying. Apparently they are from some fantasy story that Scorpius enjoys, and they play a magical sport. He told me all about it, for well over an hour. I had him tell me a story about them for bedtime that night, rather than me telling one of my own to him.

_Magic?_

Ridiculous, I know, but Scorpius is still quite young, and he adores stories about magic. So he told me about two boys who played this game—Quidditch. And how they hated each other, but many years later they met again and fell in love. The entire time, he had the two figures in his hand, swooping about in the air. It was quite imaginative, and it was very obvious just how much he loves this story.

_And how did that make you feel?_

As if I could almost believe in magic, when he spoke of it. Watching him believe was quite comforting. It seemed familiar, as if perhaps I once knew the same story. Perhaps it is from a book I had a child.

_I must admit, I’m not familiar with it myself_.

I work in a book shop, so that may be it as well. I shall have to see what I can find.

_[Throughout the rest of our session, Mr. Malloy refused to return to the topic of conversation around Harry Potter. He became quite evasive, and instead went on a tangent concerning the pleasant scent of roses, and which ones have the headiest odour, until our time was up. We have returned to meeting every other week, as he appears stable for the moment, neither gaining nor losing ground.]_

**_Excerpt from the Case Notes for Deacon Malloy, 14 December, 2006._ **

#

Harry breaks his standing date with his mates for a Friday night. When he explains that he thinks it’s _time_ , they are all supportive and yet cautious. It surprises Harry that when he is dropping Scorpius off with Molly, it is Ron who draws him aside and takes him out to walk.

Harry remembers Quidditch games on the lawn outside The Burrow. He remembers flying there during the summer before he lost Draco, watching a Malfoy _play_ with Weasleys, and knowing that his life had just become absolutely perfect and complete. He stands there and looks up into the sky; beside him, Ron laughs.

“Missing Quidditch, are you?”

“We’ll get in the air again,” Harry says. “If I have to teach him to fly all over again, I will. Him and Scorpius, side by side on their brooms and learning to take off. I can do this, Ron.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Ron’s voice is low, his hand solid against Harry’s shoulder as he squeezes it. “Mate, I don’t want to see you hurt, and this is still bloody well Draco Malfoy, even if he doesn’t know it. The bloke’s as likely to cut as he is to accept. Do you think _he’s_ ready to be hearing about magic? He seems pretty settled in his life.”

“I can’t keep lying to him.” That’s what it’s come down to, after a few months of dating. Every time Harry pulls him in for a kiss, he knows he’s lying. Not entirely, no. It’s no longer about Deacon and Draco. The name falls easily from Harry’s lips, and he almost thinks of them as two separate people. Draco was his husband, and Deacon is the man Harry hopes will be his lover. 

But Deacon deserves to know who Harry really is. It doesn’t seem right that Harry is learning all about this person, falling in _love_ with this person, and he can’t let him completely into his life.

“The guy Deacon is dating isn’t me,” Harry says quietly. “I mean, he’s _me_ , but he’s not an Auror. He’s not magical. He doesn’t fly, or have an ex-girlfriend and best mate who actually flies for a living. He doesn’t have a few magical plants around the house that might bite if we’re not careful. He doesn’t have a bond that’s _why_ Deacon is so drawn to me… I mean, is it fair, that he doesn’t know that?”

Ron just shakes his head and pats Harry’s shoulder. “Good luck with it, mate. If there’s anything you need us for, we’re just a floo call or an owl away. We’ll keep an eye out for it, just in case.”

Harry has to laugh at that. “Don’t miss out on your night without kids just because of me,” he tells him. “I’ll get this sorted. After all, we’re bonded. Everything has to turn out right.”

And he believes that, he truly does, right up until the moment when Draco is standing in his living room and looking at the window and the curtains that are wide open, a frown creasing his forehead. “Don’t you find that to be a bit exposed?” Draco asks.

It seems like the perfect opening for the conversation, and Harry should grab it and take hold. He tries to start subtly. “No one ever looks in.”

“I’ve noticed that.” Draco stands at the window, one hand on the pane of glass, and glances over his shoulder at Harry. “In fact, I’ve noticed that no one really seems to notice your house at all. When I step out, sometimes folks seem to be a bit surprised, wondering just where I’ve come from. And the other day, when I was at the market with Scorpius…”

“Yes?” Harry encourages. Perhaps this might be simpler than he expected, if Draco has already teased meaning from the strange things around him. There are enough clues lying in plain sight, from the wards on his home to the toys Scorpius plays with, to Harry’s complete lack of an automobile despite needing transport to work.

“The cashier thought he was my son.” A faint flush rises to Draco’s cheeks. “It happens, quite a bit. He’s so fair—” He waves a hand at his own features, and Harry nods to say that it’s all right, he understands. “I corrected her, of course, and Scorpius piped up that he lives with his dad at number twelve Grimmauld Place.” Draco’s frown deepens then. “She corrected him, and said that there isn’t a number twelve, and that there never has been, and perhaps he’s got the number wrong. Scorpius went silent then, as if he’d done something terrible, and didn’t speak until we were home.”

Draco looks at him, and Harry is caught by those serious grey eyes. “He asked me not to tell you that he said that. He told me it’s something he’s not supposed to talk about, the way people can’t see your house.”

And there it is, the perfect opening laid out right in front of him. Harry tries to smile reassuringly, tries to be completely matter-of-fact as he spreads his hands in front of him and says, “It’s magic.”

The words do nothing to alleviate the depth of the frown in Draco’s expression. If anything, he grows more concerned.

“That’s why I told him not to talk about it.” The words rush out as Harry tries to fill the space between them with explanations. “There are wards on the house—spells—and some of them are deeply rooted. I could have removed some of it, and then it would look like any other normal house, but that might confuse people with it suddenly appearing. So I figured it was best to just leave it as it was. But it means that our neighbours don’t even really know we’re here.”

“But how did I…” Draco’s voice trails off and he raises one hand as he turns from the window to face Harry fully. “No. That’s not a valid question because your answer is already impossible. Harry, there’s no such thing as magic. You can’t possibly expect me to believe—”

“But there is.” Harry cuts Draco off quickly as he draws his wand. He expects to see some flicker of recognition, a flinch or a wince or even the old sneer that he remembers from childhood, but Draco does not even react as Harry points the tip right at Draco’s nose. “ _Lumos_ ,” Harry whispers, and the tip lights.

Draco’s gaze narrows. “A trick. I’ve seen children with such devices at Halloween.”

“And this?” In the face of Draco’s denial, Harry can’t help but show off. He points his wand at the book sitting on the side table and levitates it, letting it spin around the room before falling upon the couch.

Lips thin, Draco watches. His arms cross, and even Harry recognises the protective, defensive stature. “It could still be a trick. I could find you several books on how to perform such a feat using wires and preset devices.”

“Why would I want to trick you?” Harry spreads his hands, open and as honest as he can manage. “I’ve been falling in love with you all over again for months now. Pushing you away is the last thing I want to do.”

As soon as the words are out, he regrets them. It was entirely the wrong thing to say, and Draco is far to astute not to catch the nuance of it. “ _Again?_ ” Draco snaps, quick and sharp. “Harry, I don’t know who you think I am—”

“No, don’t… just forget I said that.” Harry tries to correct, stepping in close, circling his arms around Draco’s waist. Draco stands stiffly, and Harry’s eyes close against the evidence of his anger or fear. “I’m not lying about the magic. I’m trying to finally tell you everything.”

“Like where you work?” One pale eyebrow arches.

“Magical law enforcement,” Harry responds promptly. “I’m an Auror, which won’t mean anything to you, but it’s a bit like a DI.”

“And your car?” Draco hasn’t stepped out of the circle of his arms yet, but he hasn’t relaxed into the touch either. His voice contains a hint of chill.

“I don’t have an automobile; I’ve no need for one,” Harry admits. “I go most places by floo, and if not that, then I Apparate, or rarely I’ll take a broom. I’ll be teaching Scorpius to fly soon.”

Hands come up between them, gentle but firm against Harry’s chest. He lets go of Draco and watches helplessly as he walks away.

“And me…” Draco refuses to look at him. “Why is it that I can see, and approach, your home when your other neighbours can’t?”

This is the question Harry hadn’t anticipated. He had somehow thought that he could explain the magical world without the question of Draco’s own part in it coming up. He hadn’t meant to say anything, and he hadn’t thought how Draco himself would notice the discrepancy.

Harry should have known, should have thought… but he never did learn to think things through before leaping. Not well enough.

He hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his genes. “You’re magical, too,” he finally says, deciding simplicity is the best answer.

The sound Draco makes is small and choked, an almost snort of dry laughter. “And you expect me to believe this?” He turns slowly, a slow smirk rising, both eyebrows arched. “And I suppose the next thing you’re going to tell me is that the picture your son showed me is magical, and that yes, you were indeed pregnant.”

He can’t answer that, so Harry just shakes his head. “Luna said it’s best if we don’t talk about that.”

“Ah, your friend, Dr. Lovegood. And is she a magical therapist?”

There is a drawl to Draco’s voice, a tone Harry is all too familiar with. The sardonic, lazy sound of a man who does not believe a word he is told. A man who believes that someone is trying to make a fool of him, and who would strike back rather than become someone who might be laughed at.

“She’s a mind healer.” Harry keeps his tone even. “When she looked at you, she said your mind is cursed. She doesn’t know if the damage can be healed, but it explains why your memories could be locked out so fully and unable to return.”

“I see.” That bland tone drips with disbelief. “So this is what you’ve been hiding from me.”

“This is what I’ve been hiding from you.”

Harry wants to go to him, wants to touch him and kiss him and try to make it all right again. But he can see Draco pulling away. The walls are back in place: that ramrod straight broomstick that holds his back stiff and points his chin in the air. He defends himself with distance and a thin smile that does nothing for his eyes.

Harry looks away.

“I need time.”

“I understand.” Harry speaks softly, looking at their reflections in the mirror that hangs over the mantle where a portrait used to be. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you come back.”

“Don’t be so certain of me, Potter.”

The name hits him like a blow to the gut, familiar and new at the same time. Not _once_ has his surname fallen from Deacon Malloy’s lips, not like that. It is like traveling back in time to their childhood, like seeing the man before they were lovers. Harry lets his gaze drop. “I wouldn’t dare.”

They’re bonded. Harry knows that will have to resolve somehow, or else it will simply keep drawing them back together until the Muggle that Draco has become goes mad from the implications.

Harry wonders if he can break the bond, if he can do what he has to do in order to save what’s left of Draco’s mind. He wonders if he can love him enough to be willing to give him up, if that’s what needs to be done.

#

“Any word, mate?” Ron nudges Harry with his shoulder. “You’ve been bloody well quiet all night, and you were a right bear at work this week. Do we need to go and talk some sense into Draco?”

“That wouldn’t help,” Luna says mildly. “He doesn’t remember who you are.”

“We’ve met!” Ron protests.

“But he only knows you as Harry’s friend.” Luna takes a sip of her pint, considering Ron. “Not as someone he can trust. And he certainly doesn’t remember your lack of friendship in the past. Which is a pity; the shock might help his system. Although this one certainly doesn’t seem to have done so.”

“Not a word,” Harry manages to say. “Not one bloody word all week. He left my house Friday night, and Scorpius has been asking after him, but there hasn’t been a thing.” He takes a long gulp of his pint, giving the glass an accusing look for being empty for the second time already this evening. “I’d been hoping he might spend the holiday with us. The first Christmas where he and Scorpius would be together.”

“I hardly think that’s fair to your son, Harry.” Hermione’s look is full of reproach. “Scorpius wants his father, and you continually ask him to lie on your behalf. One moment he has his hopes up, the next he’s lost the man he’s come to adore. He talks about his papa constantly to his cousins.”

The glass clicks against the table as Harry plays with it. “He loves him. Already, he loves him, but why wouldn’t he? He knows his papa, of course.” He glances up and grins at Neville just as he goes to sit down. “Did you bring me another pint?”

Neville slides the glass over to him. “We’ll be escorting you home by floo tonight, Harry,” he says. “I haven’t seen you this bad off in—”

“Five years?” Harry fills in the blank. “Not since the day he didn’t come home again. Kissed me that morning, told me he was off on assignment, and then he bloody well didn’t come home. Found his trace on that boat, and he was out there without a bloody partner. Should’ve fucking _waited_ for his partner, but no, he charged in there like he wanted to be a Gryffindor, so bloody sure he could handle it.”

Harry feels sick when he remembers it. Draco’s partner was a young, new Auror, and she was horrified and guilty over what had happened. She didn’t lose her post, but she had to retake training as she spent six months on probation. She’s a good Auror now, but Harry’s never been quite able to trust Dobbs again. Not since she failed Draco.

“Maybe you should slow down.”

Funny that it’s _Ginny_ telling him to be cautious. Ginny, who loves her firewhiskey and loves to have fun, and who Harry’s helped Neville get home safely more times than he can count. He laughs at that. “Gin, I think I’m allowed to be bloody well drunk once in a while. Or am I still supposed to be Saint Potter, and not let the world see that I hurt as much as anyone else?”

“No one’s said you’re not hurting, Harry.” Luna’s voice is as calm as ever, slicing through the fog around his mind. “But there’s a difference between your heart hurting, and trying to hurt yourself. 

“I’m not trying to hurt myself.” And he’s not, he’s truly not. He just wants to be a little _numb_. He just wants to _forget_.

It seems to make Draco happy, after all. Draco’s forgotten their childhood rivalry, the war, their son, everything they ever built together. And Deacon Malloy seems _happy_ , except when Harry is telling him impossible things. Except when Harry is _lying_ to him, or even trying to tell him the truth.

Maybe it’s best that he forget about Harry again. Maybe he was better off before he knocked on the door.

Maybe they were both better off.

Harry sips at his third pint, trying to be good and make it last when all he wants to do is guzzle it and find oblivion in the bottom of the glass. He settles in and watches his friends, content in their coupledom. Even Luna is content, although her husband is absent, on one of his many trips. She laughs and teases Ginny and Neville as they stop talking long enough for a snog, and she watches them, as proud as if she has brought them together.

Ron and Hermione, on the other hand, are almost entirely involved in each other, indulging in quiet conversation, sips of beer and slow kisses. 

Harry lets his gaze drift, the lights in the room flickering, slightly haloed by smudges on his glasses, and blurred by the fog of alcohol. He tugs the glasses from his face and sets them on the table, not wanting anything to be perfectly clear. He doesn’t need to see the world right now.

“Harry.” Luna sets her hand on his arm and he looks at her. Wild, pale hair is a bright halo around her.

“I’m going to get him back, Luna.” Harry knows this now. Forgetting is impossible; he can’t just sit back and wait. “Do you think it’s wrong to chase him? I told him I’d give him time. I said I’d give him all the bloody time he needs, but I can’t… I need to know whether he’s going to come back or not. I need to let him know I’m waiting.”

“Don’t push too hard, Harry. Draco’s fragile.”

He laughs at that. It is impossible to imagine Draco as ever being fragile, although Harry does know better. He knows that Draco has his scars. He _knows_. “I’ll give him space. I won’t push, Luna, I promise. But I need to ask. I need to give him an opening and let him know I’m waiting. I need him.”

“I know.” She kisses his cheek. “Give him _time_ , Harry. He’ll come to you. I know he will.”

Harry wishes he could trust himself so much.

#

Thank you for agreeing to reschedule my appointment so that I might come in early this week.

_You’re welcome. How was your holiday?_

Lonely.

_What happened?_

I did what as you suggested. I confronted him about one of the inconsistencies in his story.

_And?_

You were right. It is impossible to fall in love with a man you have never known.

_I’m sorry, Mr. Malloy. It is never difficult to lose someone you care for right before the holidays._

I can’t think it’s easy at any time, but then, I can’t remember, can I?

_[The subject’s tone was sharp and biting, his gaze quite narrowed and dark. It took some time for him to find ease again.]_

I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. Do you know, I believe I have tried every possible method of therapy to remember? I have tried science, and I have tried philosophy. I have even tried what some might call magic.

_I never suspected you of New Age witchery._

I’m not. I… it’s funny, isn’t it, the things the mind chooses to remember? Or to bring out at the oddest moments, when they’d seem most fanciful and least useful. I try to remember my life, and instead I dream of dragons.

_Draco dormiens._

I’m sorry?

_You said it once, in one of our earliest sessions, years ago. Give me a moment, and I can find the reference. Ah, here it is. Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus. Never tickle a sleeping dragon. You told me that day that you could not get the phrase from your mind. I’ve always assumed you read it in one of the books in your shop._

I don’t remember.

_[The subject looked strangely shocked at this phrase, and was silent for some time. He rose and paced during his silence, hands clasped behind his back as he refused to look at me.]_

_Does it have some significance for you now?_

No.

_Your voice is too quiet for that to be true._

It rings in my mind. No, that’s a terrible way of saying it. It _feels_ true. It makes me think of the hallucination I experienced recently.

_A hallucination?_

At the hands of a friend of Harry’s. She’s a therapist, specialising in regression therapy. She claimed to take me into my own past, but I can’t believe it was. After all, Harry was there, and his mate Ron if I recall.

…Oh.

In the background, on the wall, there was a tapestry. I remember the words that were written upon the shield displayed there.

_Draco dormiens…?_

Nunquam titillandus. Yes. You say I told you this before?

_Years ago, yes. It held no familiarity for you then, and you presented it as a curiosity. I’ve always assumed it to be a bit of fiction that slipped into your mind and stayed._

I see.

_Would you care to sit down again, so that we might proceed?_

No. Have you any experience with regression therapy?

_Very little. It is a very… fuzzy field. There are those who believe we can take someone into past lives, or at the least into their own memories which have been blocked._

She said mine were blocked.

_They all say that. The difficulty is that often those “memories” are shaded by the hints given by the therapist, or by what the patient wants to see. It is why the memories may feel possible, but do not always ring true. The mind is a fascinating thing, and perhaps one of the most fascinating traits it has is the ability to create a new reality when the existing one is too painful to bear._

You believe I have done this?

_I believe you want to find your place in this Harry Potter’s life, and that if you need a reason to be there, you will create it within your mind._

What if I remind him of his husband because I _am_ his husband?

_Does that feel as if it might be true?_

I don’t know.

_Do you plan on seeing him again? Perhaps we should set our next appointment for only one week. These next days might prove difficult…_

I won’t be coming back.

_I’m sorry?_

_[The patient smiled thinly, almost sadly, as he gathered up his coat.]_

I’m sorry. I’d be lying to you if we were to continue. There are things I need to talk about, but they are things I am not comfortable broaching within our relationship. I believe I must find another therapist at this time. Would you be willing to provide my records?

_Of course. Are you quite certain you are prepared to go without treatment for a time? I can recommend several therapists—_

No, I actually have someone in mind. And I do apologise, I should have given you warning, but I didn’t quite think… I’ve just decided, actually. And I quite appreciate all you’ve done for me over the years. Thank you.

_[Deacon Malloy exited my office after a brief handshake, and left instructions to send his records by post to his home. Upon explanation that it was an unorthodox request, he stated that his new therapist was quite unorthodox as well, and he suspected this would suit._

_There are marks upon this case which in another man might lead me to be concerned about suicide: the sudden relaxation, the urge to cut ties. But I do not have this concern with Deacon Malloy. However, I do not think he is healed, either. One can only hope that he does not cause harm to himself or others; after all, the only one who can remand him into therapy is himself.]_

**_Excerpt from the Case Notes for Deacon Malloy, 27 December, 2006._ **

#

“Come out with me tonight.” Harry speaks as soon as Draco’s door opens. He holds up a tin of fresh lemon biscuits as an offering. “Scorpius is with Molly, and I’ve got the whole night to myself. And I can’t let the year end without trying to make things up to you, Deacon. I don’t want to ring in a new year in a few days without knowing that I haven’t scared you off completely.”

He blurts it all out and waits, terrified that Draco will refuse him. That the door will slam in his face and Harry will have to disappear into his invisible house and spend the night entirely alone. He is surprised and pleased when it opens instead, and Draco beckons him inside.

“I thought you were going to give me time.”

There’s something different about him today, and Harry stands in the entryway as he tries to figure it out. A slight shift in his tone, maybe in the way he’s standing. Or perhaps it’s the green jumper, as if somewhere in Draco’s mind he knew to find something in Slytherin green with the silver trim.

“I’d hoped you were going to come see me, and when you didn’t—”

“You thought you’d leap right in and come to me instead,” Draco finishes the thought. “You are the rash sort, aren’t you, Harry?”

A small laugh. “I always have been, ever since we were small. You’ve given me no amount of shite for it, over the years.”

Draco’s smile drops away. “That regression your friend performed. That _memory_. We knew each other once when we were younger.” It isn’t a question, his tone flat and tight. “In fact, we knew each other quite well, didn’t we.”

“Luna said—”

“Sod what Dr. Lovegood said.” Draco crosses his arms, chin pointed up as he looks over from behind an emotional wall that Harry can almost see between them. “You believe I’m Scorpius’s father.”

“If you’re not, then you could be his twin,” Harry says slowly. “But I honestly can’t imagine there ever being two of you in the wizarding world, so yes, I’m fairly certain you’re Scorpius’s other father.”

“What is my _name_ then?” Draco steps in close, and it is all Harry can do not to reach out to him. He has come here, but he has to let Draco bridge the distance between them now, when he is ready.

“Draco Malfoy.” Harry answers the question, but doesn’t give more details than that. “Although right now you’re Deacon Malloy, and given that I’ve fallen in love with the man, I might miss him if he disappears completely.”

One pale eyebrow arches. “Have you? Fallen in love with him, that is.”

“Completely.” Harry spreads his hands. “I came to ask you to dinner and a film. Not to talk about magic, or memory, or Draco Malfoy. I just wanted to take you out. Two blokes—Harry and Deacon. That’s it.” At Draco’s curious look, he had to add, “Unless you have questions. I’ll answer anything you ask, on the condition that you don’t run away after I do.”

“It’s a lot to take in.”

Harry laughs at his expression, almost as defensive as when Draco was a child. “It is. I didn’t believe in it either, when I first found out about magic.”

“Did I?”

“You were born into it,” Harry says. He offers a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Draco takes it, their fingers curling together warmly. “Come out with me, and I’ll tell you some of it. If you want to hear it. Or we can just get that dinner, and go to a film, and then come home.”

Draco sucks in a tight breath, letting it out slowly before he nods. “Dinner and a film,” he agrees. “I’m curious, I’ll admit. As far-fetched as it all sounds, you clearly believe it. And it is far too elaborate for it to be a ruse. What man would willingly falsify the idea that he had been pregnant? But I can see your eyes in Scorpius.”

And _Draco’s_ features. Harry wants to say it, but he doesn’t want to push, so he squeezes Draco’s hand instead.

“But I don’t think I want to hear about it,” Draco says. He opens the door and ushers Harry back outside, following and locking the door behind him. “If I am him—and he is me—I want to learn that on my own. I’ve been Deacon Malloy for five years now, and I’ve never remembered my life before. If it’s going to come, then it will come.”

Harry bites his tongue. “Exactly,” he finally murmurs, and Draco laughs.

“You want to poke at this.” Draco nudges him as they walk along the street.

“Thoroughly,” Harry agrees, nudging him back. With fingers intertwined and shoulders bumping, it is as familiar as it gets. Harry remembers nights like this with Draco, and he remembers the same with Deacon. Slowly the two are merging in his mind, and he can accept that. “It’s driving me mad not to wiggle my fingers around and find the cracks in your memory that might let Draco through,” he admits. “But I don’t want to do any damage. And more importantly, I don’t want to scare you away. I want you in my life— _need_ you in my life—whoever you happen to be at the moment.”

He _says_ this of course, and it _is_ true, but Harry is not above trying to scatter clues all around them. It is only a short trip on the tube to a small restaurant that serves both Muggle and magical customers, a place favored by those who grew up in the Muggle world. Harry had found it and they’d both enjoyed eating there. It is where he first told Draco that Scorpius had been conceived. Draco might not remember it, but Harry hopes it holds a pleasant resonance.

There is no outward sign of recognition as they are seated in a corner booth in the back. They sit almost side by side, fingers touching beneath the table as they order. Draco is delighted to find favorite foods, and when their meal is delivered, he takes one taste of the calamari before closing his eyes with a sigh.

“That is exactly how calamari is meant to taste,” Draco murmurs, and Harry has to smile.

“You like that?” A small nudge with his words, and with his toe against Draco’s foot beneath the table.

“I’ve loved calamari all along, but it was never quite right.” Draco takes another piece and savors it. “This is perfect.” He looks at Harry, gaze narrowing. “I’ve been here before.”

“Perhaps.” Harry keeps his tone light, but the smile never fades. “I’m sure you’ll love the veal as well.”

“I’m sure I will.” There is a hint of laughter beneath Draco’s dry tone. He reaches out to palm the nape of Harry’s neck, dragging him close to kiss him. Just a light press of lips against lips, but it is enough to tell Harry that he is forgiven this small subterfuge.

And of course, Draco does love the veal, and the tiramisu for dessert, and his favorite pinot noir. And Harry loves watching Draco discover these things anew, and almost seem as if he might remember them as well.

By the time the meal is done, they are both relaxed and comfortable. Draco’s hand slides over Harry’s thigh, and Harry can’t help but react. This is his lover, his husband, the father of his son… his body knows him and wants him, every bit that he is willing to give. He can’t ask, but he can show him what he needs.

Harry twists in his seat to face Draco, that hand on his thigh slipping higher; Harry is glad that Draco doesn’t pull it away. He moves in slowly, claiming the kiss but letting Draco control the depth of it, the passion behind it. Draco nips at his lip, and Harry opens for him, welcomes him into his mouth, teases him with his tongue and leads him on a dance until Harry groans with the feel of it.

Draco has him pressed back against the bench, that hand flat against the hard length that is trapped by Harry’s jeans. It is the most blatant touch between them since Draco re-entered Harry’s life. Harry whimpers, hips shifting, and Draco rewards him by pressing down against him.

“You said Scorpius is with Molly?” Draco’s voice is rough. Hoarse.

“All night,” Harry confirms. “I’ll be picking him up in the morning.”

Draco glances at the table, littered with empty plates, their waiter long gone and the meal already paid for. When he looks back to Harry, his eyes are dark and wide, huge pupils rimmed by a thin slit of silver. “Let’s go home,” he says.

Harry has no words for that, for how _much_ that simple phrasing makes him feel. He slides from the booth and takes Draco’s hands, and together they hurry from the restaurant. When they get outside, Harry doesn’t want to wait. There are times for walking along darkened streets holding hands, or being pushed together in the crush on the tube, and there are times for falling into bed.

He squeezes Draco’s hand. “Would you trust me with magic, if I said I could get us there immediately?”

There’s a flicker in Draco’s expression, something that might be fear, before his pointy jaw sets and he nods quickly. “Of course.”

And that is a measure of trust given that swells Harry’s heart. He gathers Draco in, holding on tight as he twists them in place and Apparates them home.

#

Harry doesn’t remember climbing the stairs to his room. They are just _there_ , standing awkwardly for a moment while Harry toys with the buttons of Draco’s shirt. He lifts his gaze to meet Draco’s, seeking permission; when Draco nods, Harry picks the top button open, letting his fingers slide inside to touch skin. A soft hiss at the feel of him, warm and slightly flushed.

Harry rushes through the rest of the buttons, not caring that he is still fully dressed. He wants to see Draco, to see all that pale skin and the twisted silvered scars across his chest and abdomen. Even the darkness of the mark inside his forearm. He lifts Draco’s hand and presses a kiss to that ink, and Draco shudders.

“It means something, doesn’t it?” Draco asks. “It’s not just some tattoo that I got on a whim.”

“It means something,” Harry confirms. “And I’m sure that someday you’ll remember. We have a tangled past, you and I, and not all of it is good.” He intersperses words with kisses along Draco’s shoulder, his chest, teasing skin with tongue. “But I love you beyond words.”

Harry slowly slides down his body, tracing a path over those scars with his kisses. He nuzzles the hard ridge inside of Draco’s trousers with his cheek, teasing him, wanting this to last. It is both _again_ and _the first time_ and for that reason alone it is special.

“Don’t.” Draco pulls Harry up before he can manage to get Draco’s fly undone. “If you do that, I’ll be coming apart before we’ve had a chance to even get into bed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with going twice,” Harry points out with a grin. “Or with floors, walls, and any surface available.”

“But I choose the bed this time,” Draco says quietly. He frames Harry’s face and dots kisses across his cheeks and lips. “I choose the bed, and I choose how we do it. This is my desire, and it is my first time, and I want to remember it exactly like this.”

Draco makes quick work of Harry’s shirt, then tugs him back toward the bed. They end up with Harry straddling Draco, hips pressed to hips, and it is all Harry can do to keep from rutting against him he is so hungry for his touch. He has no problems with letting Draco take control; it is the pace that frustrates him, driving him to the edge of his hunger and making him desperate with need.

Kisses are wet and slightly sloppy, interspersed with moans. Draco’s hands glide over Harry, rediscovering the planes of his chest, the feel of his back. He lingers on his face, touching the faded scar. “This is also important,” Draco murmurs, and it isn’t a question.

Harry can’t breathe at that, and he nods rather than answer. Draco kisses the lightning bolt and Harry’s heart races in response. He ducks his head and sucks a small red mark above Draco’s collarbone, teasing him there. His fingers splay over Draco’s chest, touching the fine raised points of the scars, then teasing the lines like a map etched into his skin. Draco’s breath hitches, and he arches beneath Harry’s touch, pressing them achingly close together.

For a moment Harry thinks Draco is going to say something again, is going to note how _important_ those scars are, but there is nothing. Still, when Harry rises to kiss Draco again, he notices small drops squeezed from the corners of his eyes, and he kisses the tears away. “I love you,” he whispers, and Draco moans in response.

Draco nudges and they flip, Harry sprawled across the bed and Draco above him, taking his time to _look_ while he touches. Fingers skate over flat nipples, then touch and twist and _tease_ until Harry can’t help but cry out and shift beneath him. Draco pushes him back flat and Harry feels the heat gathering in his gut at the familiarity of the gesture and the wicked grin that lights Draco’s features.

Fingers pick at the button of Harry’s fly, opening it and nudging down the zip. His prick aches in the confines of his jeans, and he wiggles to help Draco push the fly wide and tug down both jeans and pants just enough to let Harry’s erection bob free.

It isn’t comfortable the way his pants are tucked up under his balls, or the jeans under his arse, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s been like this before, and he loves that moment when Draco can’t be arsed enough to finish what he’s doing because he’s so desperate to get Harry in his mouth.

Draco’s slender fingers wrap around the base of Harry’s prick, firm as he wanks just that little bit, holding him up. His thumb smooths the droplet of fluid over the head before his tongue darts out to taste it. For a moment, Draco’s eyes close, and Harry imagines him remembering the taste, knowing it somewhere deep inside his bones.

When those eyes open again, they pin Harry, silver meeting green, and Harry’s breath disappears when Draco swallows him down.

All the way to the root, that talented mouth and throat taking Harry in deep and letting him thrust up. “Fuck.” The one word is strangled, ripped from Harry when he is trying so hard to stay silent. He reaches for Draco, lets his fingers thread through his hair, trying to be gentle. “Oh fuck, Draco… Deacon…” He flounders for a name because it doesn’t _matter_ any more, now that they’re here. He just wants him, wants him in all ways, deep inside of him.

Harry hooks his fingers in his jeans, trying to push them down while his mind is occupied by the mouth that is wet and warm around his prick. He can’t watch, can’t look, or he will lose control and spill inside of those lips. Draco might want that, but Harry wants to wait. It has been so long since they have been together, and everything else is perfect, but he wants to be joined again. “Please,” he moans. “ _Please_.”

“This?” Draco lets Harry’s prick slide free of his mouth with a wet pop. He leans back to yank down the jeans and pants, pulling them off and tossing them away, then he settles again between Harry’s legs. He bends them, pushing them back to open Harry up to his gaze. “You have a beautiful arse,” he murmurs. “Give me your lube, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t think about it, just reaches out and the tube smacks into his hand, summoned from the drawer. He hands it to Draco and waits impatiently until the first two fingers, slicked and cold, press against his hole. Kisses against his inner thigh while Draco opens him, and Harry pushes impatiently against his touch. He wants more, and he wants it now. He doesn’t need gentle.

But Draco is watching with that expression of fascination, watching the way his fingers disappear inside of Harry, fucking him open. “You are so good,” he says quietly. “Such a perfect fit. I’m going to need a condom, Harry. And soon.”

Condom. _Condom_?

This can’t end because Harry doesn’t have Muggle protection. He groans, hands fisted in the sheets as Draco twists those fingers and presses them deeper. “Don’t need one,” he manages to say. “Magic.” There are protections in place against disease, and protections in place against pregnancy. Nothing can go wrong. “Please, just… fuck me.”

Draco hesitates, and Harry struggles to breathe through the sudden stop in motion. “I promise,” Harry says, keeping his voice as even as he can. “I promise, everything will be okay. Do you trust me?”

It is those words that break through the walls, and Draco nods once quickly. “I do,” he says.

He pulls his fingers from Harry’s arse, wiping them off on the sheets before he rolls off the bed. It takes a moment for him to shed his own trousers, kicking them away. Harry wants to reach out for that lovely prick, but he doesn’t think he can move right now. But he can watch Draco palm it, stroking it as he looks at the way Harry lies, legs wantonly spread, ass open and waiting.

Draco moves slowly, spilling lube into the palm of his hand and wrapping it around his prick to slick it. He spills more over Harry’s arse, a cold squishy feeling before Draco settles between his legs and begins to press forward.

Harry’s eyes close, and he gasps at the familiarity of it. This prick is something he has felt so many times, he has the sensation memorised. And Draco fucks like he remembers Harry, pushing in just slightly, then holding still and waiting for that slight shift in Harry’s hips before he presses again. It is a dance they’ve done so many times, and Draco seems to remember every step of it, every moment of give and take as Harry leads him through it.

Draco wedges his knees beneath Harry’s ass once he is seated fully, takes the time to stroke Harry’s prick with his still slick palm. Harry presses his ass towards him, begging for more, and Draco bites his lip.

“You feel good,” Draco admits. “You feel _right_.”

“Don’t think.” Harry pulls Draco forward, kissing him hard. “Just fuck me. Just _feel_.”

And he does.

Slow and sweet at first, almost achingly slow in a way that makes Harry think his heart is going to burst. And when he thinks he can’t bear another moment of it, Draco moans low in his throat and his hips stutter, then the real thrusts begin. It becomes a brutal joining of desperate need, Harry’s prick bobbing against his stomach between them as Draco pushes hard and deep, touching something inside of Harry that makes his world light all around the edges.

Harry loses control first, his orgasm spilling over his stomach and his body clenching tight around Draco. He kisses him, swallowing the sounds as Draco’s orgasm rips through him as well, pulsing into Harry.

They collapse for a time, floating in the post-coital haze and bliss.

Harry is just on the edge of sleep when Draco rolls away and slips from the bed. Harry twists to see where he goes. “You don’t have to leave,” he reminds him quietly. “We’ve got the whole night, if you’d like.” His gut churns at the thought that it may have been too much and that Draco might be overwhelmed and leave.

Draco doesn’t say a word, just makes his way to the mantle over the fireplace in Harry’s room. He reaches out and takes something from it, cradling it carefully in his palms as he carries it back to the bed. He perches on the edge and uncurls his hand to show the two small dragons. He holds the dark-scaled and green eyed trinket out towards Harry. “Take it,”

He reaches for it uncertainly, watching Draco with careful eyes as he sits up and places the dragon on one palm. Draco wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist, bringing it closer to his own hand, so that the dragons face each other.

As they watch, the pale smoke dragon huffs and stretches its neck, reaching out until the darker one meets it halfway. They nuzzle and move closer together, until they span both hands, necks aligned and wings carefully tangled.

Harry can’t breathe. There is no room for air in his lungs, no room for his heart to beat around the hope that is filling him.

“Tokyo.” The word is rough with emotion, and Draco stops immediately after, as if just that was too much. He closes his eyes, looking inward. Harry wants to reach out, but he can’t disturb the dragons and won’t risk scaring Draco away, not now.

When nothing more comes, Harry asks quietly, “Tokyo?”

“The dragons were in Tokyo. The ones in my hallucination.” Draco takes a slow, even breath. “These dragons are from Tokyo. And look at them. They know us. They know we’re—” His voice trails off. “I don’t have the words for this, Harry. This isn’t… I don’t understand it, but I feel it. I _know_ it.”

“We’re bonded.” Harry tries to make it matter-of-fact, as if his heart isn’t racing so fast he feels dizzy.

“Yes.” Draco’s eyes open again, meeting Harry’s as he smiles. He takes the dragons back carefully and stares at them in wonder, watching as they murmur together, showing more life than they have in five years. “We’re bonded.”

The knot of tension that was still twisted inside of Harry slowly loosed and let him breathe again. His fingers drifted over Draco’s back. “Come back to bed.” He doesn’t say _Draco_ and he doesn’t say _Deacon_ because he’s not entirely sure what just happened. Something big, he knows that at least. Something important.

He doubts Draco has remembered everything. Luna has assured him that the mind doesn’t work that way, that it might be forever before Draco’s memory completely returns, and even more importantly, it might never truly happen. But this… this small breakthrough… seems impossibly huge to Harry.

There are so many things to talk about, and he runs through them all in his mind as Draco gets up to carefully put the dragons back on the mantle. None of them are important right now. None of them are more important than the man who is climbing back into bed and slipping under the covers, sliding close to Harry, warm and naked and real. He closes his eyes and lets the questions go.

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Lovegood. Have you got her mobile number?” Draco’s voice is a soft whisper against Harry’s shoulder, the words careful and slow.

It is a risk to respond this way, but Luna doesn’t _have_ a mobile. Harry can’t imagine her with the device, so he says instead, “I’ll show you how to use the floo in the morning.”

“The floo.” Draco rolls the words on his tongue, tasting them. “I suppose that’s magical.”

“It is,” Harry confirms. “Is that going to be all right?”

“I suppose I shall have to get used to it.”  There is another pause, before Draco murmurs, “Do you think I might come with you in the morning, when you go to collect Scorpius from Molly?”

“That will be the floo as well.” Harry laughs softly at the small snort of disbelief from Draco. “And yes, of course. I’m going to enjoy showing you this world through my eyes. You will love it, I promise.”

“No matter whether I am Draco or Deacon?” There is a note of uncertainty, and Harry can’t stand that small fear he hears. 

“No matter who you are, you are still my husband, and I love you.” It takes a kiss then, to seal the promise, and Harry feels another strand of the bond wind around them. Whatever may come, they will face it together.

#

_Hullo, Draco. Or would you prefer that I call you Deacon?_

I don’t know who I am, Dr. Lovegood. Neither name feels right, just now.

_Call me Luna, please. You can pick another name for yourself, if you’d like. Just so I have something to call you. A Blibbering Humdinger is still a Blibbering Humdinger, no matter how many people try to convince it that it’s actually called a Hasslefeiffer._

A… what? We’ll just go with Draco. I’m not quite sure yet that I’m him, but I’m fairly certain that he’s someone that I’d like to be.

_Are you quite certain about that? Sometimes we forget the things that hurt._

Draco’s married to Harry.

_Unofficially, yes. Is that why you wish to be Draco, so you can be with Harry? He seems to have got quite used to calling you Deacon._

He has. It’s a bit confusing being two people at once.

_That’s why starting over with a new name might be nice. Why don’t you try Nigel on for size?_

I get the impression that you’re going to be quite a confusing therapist.

_People say that, but they do keep coming back. I’ve quite a high success rate. Did you know that I’ve even spoken to Alice Longbottom? Well, she hasn’t spoken back to me yet, but it’s coming, I’m quite sure of it. She likes stories best._

I also suspect you have quite a number of very brilliant stories.

_I do. Now Nigel, how do you think we ought to proceed?_

Call me—never mind. Shouldn’t you be telling me what comes next?

_You might think that, but tell me, has anyone in the last five years been able to tell you the way to be healed? I didn’t think so. The biggest difficulty with healing the mind is that the only one who is actually able to do it is the person who is so very broken in the first place._

I begin to think you may have a point, Dr. Lovegood.

_Luna_.

Draco.

_What do you think your biggest strength is, right now, Nigel?_

Dr—never mind. Harry. My biggest strength is Harry.

_Just Harry?_

You, perhaps. His mates as well. I’m told we’ll be with them—and you—to ring in the New Year in Harry’s house. And of course, there’s Scorpius.

_Why are these your biggest strengths?_

They let me lean on them. Even when I don’t know who I am, even when I’m floundering for the truth, they are there to hold me up. Harry wants more from me, and as anxious as he is, he isn’t pushing. And Scorpius… he just wants his father, and he’ll let me be that, as best I can. He delights in showing me bits of magic.

_They are your support._

Yes, I suppose they are. I haven’t had anything like that in recent years. It feels at last as if I’ve come home. As if I’m safe.

_I believe you are. You know we can talk at any time, of course._

I rather thought that was how therapy worked, yes.

_I just wanted you to be certain of it. I am your healer, and I am your friend, and we will help you find yourself. Whether that is Draco or Deacon or Nigel, I am certain you will find your way there with Harry to help you along the way._

It’s a rather long road, I suspect, but it helps that I’m no longer walking it alone. Shall we meet weekly, then?

_We’ll talk at the party, and set a new appointment there if you feel the need. I don’t believe in schedules. You will need me when you need me, so call me then. In the meantime, I’m certain we’ll see each other often. Don’t worry, I shan’t tell Harry you’re considering a new name. I suspect he is already confused enough with two._

Of course. Then I shall see you Sunday.

_I shall see you then._

**_[29 December, 2006. Nigel. Not yet healed, but on the path. I do believe that everything will be just fine. He’ll learn that for himself soon enough.]_ **

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